I must have been 13 when I first discovered the Regency romances of Georgette Heyer. She plunged me headlong into a world of defiant young women in sprig muslin dresses who are plucked from country obscurity and allowed to lay siege to the haute social world of London or Bath.

A Heyer heroine may be orphaned, of restricted means, thrust into a fake betrothal or threatened by a cruel guardian, but she always becomes all the rage at Almack's in London or the Bath Assembly Rooms; favorably noticed by the fastidious Beau Brummell (who appears as early as Heyer's first romance, Regency Buck, published in 1935).

Invariably a Heyer heroine holds her chin a little higher than the other simpering misses, as the good-for-nothing rakes and dandies of Regency England lay siege to her heart. Meanwhile, standing in a reserved and haughty silence, there is some brooding gentleman, a "true Corinthian" and "Pink of the ton," who will prove himself of exceptional moral fiber and swift action when her virtue is finally threatened.

At 13, I was deeply interested in the dashing hero — his lips crushing hers, as he holds her in his firm embrace on the last page — and also the mending of dresses, trimming of old hats with ostrich feathers with signaled the start of adventure and eventual end of constrained circumstances.

But now I am what Georgette would consider a married matron, what excuse do I have for slyly grabbing up her books at the yard sale, the beach book — swap or the hotel library? Was she not merely a gateway drug to Jane Austen? Am I not beyond reading of a fine leg in a yellow pantaloons and a snowy white cravat, tied just so?

Today, Heyer is recognized for her substance and her immaculate historic research.

Her book, An Infamous Army, contains a description of the Battle of Waterloo so detailed that universities have included it in their history reading lists. When I read these books, I revel in this level of detail. When the heroine drives out in Beau Brummell's curricle, Heyer makes sure I know the difference between this lightweight, two-wheeled racing rig and the more staid barouche favored by dowagers.

But, isn't the point of a guilty pleasure that one should not attempt to defend it, or to rediscover its historic or intellectual depths?

One should merely enjoy hiding the book behind a beach towel. At 13 years old, I skipped all the boring Waterloo descriptions and lived for details of the heroine, Lady Barbara, tending wounded soldiers and waiting to learn the fate of a certain dark and brooding Colonel Charles. Today, Lady Bab still has all my attention. Pass the smelling salts, please.

Helen Simonson is a British-born former advertising executive who lives with her husband and two sons in the Washington, D.C. area. She is the author of the novel Major Pettigrew's Last Stand.